Tag Archives: parade

[tweetmeme source=”elizabethev” only_single=false]I love sunny days in March, when the temperature reaches 70. I love running for a good cause, up and over the hills of South Boston. I love wearing green. And I love my neighborhood. I could do without it being invaded by a bunch of hot messes, but I suppose it’s only one day a year. And by the time I get home from work, all of the cigabutts, shamrock headbands and beer cans will have been hauled away. If one day of chaos is the price we pay (welp, in addition to a mortgage) to live in Southie… it’s well worth it.

I must be getting old, but I could barely contain my second-hand embarrassment walking down Broadway after the morning’s 5k. Green spandex is a privilege, not a right. Throwing up into a cup at 11:30 AM is never a good look. And no, you cannot feed my dog a handful of Cheetos (as much as he probably would have loved that).

It’s not all bad, though. I love seeing families setting their chairs out early in the morning to get the best view. I love the bagpipes. I bet whoever invented those was in need of a good cry. Amazing Grace always crushes my soul. Despite being truly odd, I love the parade itself. I wish certain groups weren’t banned from marching, especially when the parade is already full of grown men wearing skirts, playing flutes. To quote Alanis, “It’s a little too ironic, don’t you think?” But unlike rain on your wedding day, it actually is ironic. People are people. There’s no reason to exclude.

After the South Boston Boys and Girls Club 5k and walking up to the east side to visit with my sister, her fiance (yayayayayayayay!) and their friends for a bit, I was ready to head home. And happy I didn’t have to go far. And grateful to share the neighborhood for just one day.

Thank you for sharing:

It’s March 17th and my Irish American eyes are smiling (Auntie Tyra calls it smizing). St. Patrick’s Day is often misunderstood (cue the gaggle of green-clad men I saw lurking outside the Cornerstone at the top o’ the morning today). We live in Southie, which seems to attract a lot of interesting characters come St. Patrick’s Day and parade time.

Are bars open at 7:30 AM? Me thinks not.

Perhaps I should tell you a little bit about a man named Patrick. That was his first name, the Saint part was added later… and since he lived between in the late 300’s-mid 400’s AD, I don’t think any of his contemporaries are around to remind us of his last name.

Two of his letters have survived, though, believe it or not. That would be like if my pathetic blog survived, only to be encountered in 3527 AD by some unsuspecting martian, forced to read all about my Frenchie’s trips to the vet. Kind of like that, at least. Patrick’s letters were a touch more important and besides, they’re in Latin.

Welp, these are my brothers whilst in Ireland. (Photo credit: An Irish stranger or excellent use of the self-timer?)

Anyway, Pat was captured and brought to Ireland as a slave. He’d later escape, return to his family in Britain, enter the church and be ordained a Bishop and then travel back to Ireland, helping to shape the church in Ireland as we know it.

Legend holds that Patrick drove the snakes from the Emerald Isle, but superior knowledge (more commonly referred to as Wikipedia) alleges that there were no snakes in Ireland after the glaciers melted. Weird, I know. Perhaps the snake was symbolic. Imagine if St. Patrick lived in the U.S. during the 20th century? Maybe then we would’ve been spared from “Snakes on a Plane.” Now that would be grounds for canonization.

Another photo from my brothers' adventure.

Also legendary was St. Patrick’s use of the shamrock (the plain old ones have three leaves, not four) in teaching the Irish about the Holy Trinity. Pretty clever. Make note, C.C.D. teachers! St. Patrick is said to have died on March 17th, which now marks his feast day (and a spike in faux leprechaun beard sales).